


hollow but brave

by piecesofgold



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/F, F/M, Government Agencies, Modern Era, Non-Linear Narrative, Polyamory, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23771953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofgold/pseuds/piecesofgold
Summary: Anya kisses her. Marfa kisses back. And Dmitry kisses them both.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Marfa/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia Broadway)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	hollow but brave

**Author's Note:**

> not entirely sure this is any good but i haven't been able to stop writing it so. Here.

Dmitry’s going to kill Marfa.

He should’ve known when she handed him the file with a sly smirk that this would be more trouble than it’s worth.

“You know I can do the job myself, right?” He’d said, flicking through the scarce papers.

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Marfa said, too sweetly. “But this one needs the best, and no one’s better than her.”

“Why the sudden need to be helpful?” His hands reached for her waist and pulled her onto his lap, straddling his hips.

“Call it sentiment.”

Dmitry raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have any of that.”

“Mitya,” Marfa warned, lips brushing over his. “Do shut up.”

He’d put his mouth to better use instead.

There’s movement against his arm, and Dmitry doesn’t even have to look up.

“The ghost, I presume,” he says mildly. Glancing out the corner of his eye, a tiny wisp of a woman with clear blue eyes and the most innocent smile he’s ever seen is not how he envisioned an international assassin.

A gun held to his crotch, however, Dmitry has learned to expect.

The woman grins wider at him. “Ghost? Is that what they’re calling me?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t pay attention to gossip.” She presses the muzzle harder against Dmitry’s thigh; he makes an effort not to wince. “Now tell me why it is you’re looking for me or I take out all your future little ones.”

“Spektor.”

It’s the magic word that seems to resonate and make her lean back. “You know Marfa?” She asks, surprise colouring her voice.

“Something like that.” Dmitry snatches the thread of opportunity. “We worked together. Still do, occasionally.”

The pressure of the gun is suddenly gone. “Well, any friend of Marfa’s...” She swipes his glass and downs the rest of his whisky. “Got a name, Marfa’s friend?”

He only hesitates for a second. “Dmitry.” He motions to the bartender for two more glasses. “And since we’re sharing, feel like telling me yours?”

Chin rested on clasped hands, she squints at him. “Anya.”

Dmitry just nods. “Nice to meet you, Anya.”

* * *

It takes seven months for his new American coworkers to trust him.

Dmitry doesn’t entirely blame them. He sold out his homeland and everyone who's ever cared about him because he finally stopped justifying the work they had him doing. The violence.

It’s not a far leap that he could do the same to them.

As if the NSA is any different.

Eighteen months later, he’s permitted to help run point on a joint intelligence mission in Turkey, and Marfa Spektor won’t look at him.

Dmitry hasn’t seen her in two years, not since she’d broken his nose and said she hated him, tears streaming from her pretty green eyes when he told her what he’d done.

“Will she be a problem?” His handler asks lowly, glancing across the room at Marfa’s stony face.

Dmitry fights not to roll his eyes. “Not for this, at least.”

She barely says two words to him the entire five days they’re in Istanbul that aren’t mission oriented - but he catches her staring more than once, and his fingers ache to brush stray hairs that fall in front of her face.

Afterwards, she’s tearing that reddish-brown hair out of it’s braid and still refusing to look at him until he grabs her wrist.

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t talk to traitors,” Marfa snaps in Russian, fingernails digging into his hand. “And you have nothing to say to me.”

Dmitry lets her stalk ahead a few paces ahead before he follows, stopping her hotel room door from slamming with his foot. “Marf -“

“Jesus _fuck_ , Sudayev, what part of -“

“I’m sorry!” He cuts her off loudly. “Is that what you need to hear?!”

Marfa snorts bitterly. “I don’t want your apologies, I just -“

“Then _tell me_ what you want,” he’s almost pleading now, slipping back into his mother tongue.

Marfa looks anywhere but his eyes. “I just want to know _why_.” Her voice wavers, a rare show of vulnerability.

Dmitry sinks down onto the edge of her bed. “I don’t know how to explain that.”

“Try.” She’s snapping again. “Because I can't think of any damn thing they offered you that would make you turn your back on your country, your friends, _family_.”

“They didn’t offer me anything, Marf,” he tells her softly. “I just couldn’t do it anymore - any of it. Not the way they’re running it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t expect you to.”

Marfa still doesn’t look convinced, but she comes to stand in front of him anyway, fingers hesitantly trailing his jaw. “You left.”

“I know.” Dmitry doesn’t dare move.

Her hand finds his throat. “You left _me_.” Voice cracking, she presses against his pulse point.

Ah, and that’s what it comes down, really. What hurts her most - not that he betrayed his country, or switched sides. That he left her behind.

“I know,” he repeats quietly, raises her palm to his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She’s crying when he kisses her, tugging at her waist until she falls against him. Dmitry will gladly take the dressing down from Crawford if he can give Marfa this one moment of sincerity.

“ _Ya skuchal po tebe_ ,” she murmurs against his neck, impatiently undoing his shirt buttons.

Dmitry sinks his fingers into her hair, tilts his head back to brush their lips together. “I missed you, too.”

* * *

No one has scars like Anya, not in any line of work Marfa has ever seen.

Smoothing a hand over Anya’s bare back, Marfa traces over them lightly. “How did you get these?”

Anya hums sleepily. “You’ve heard the rumours.”

“Any truth to them?” Marfa kisses her shoulder blade.

“Is this an interrogation, Spektor?” Anya rolls onto her back, tucking a lock of hair behind Marfa’s ear. Her fingers linger there, tracing Marfa’s cheek. “Was that your plan, to wine, dine and bed me hoping to extract some intel?” She asks, fondly mocking.

Marfa holds her wrist steady. “We both know you’re not that easy.”

She moves to kiss her and Anya responds eagerly, letting Marfa lick into her mouth while she tugs at her dark hair. They make out lazily for a while, until Anya starts to whimper impatiently, a noise Marfa has come to know as her wanting more.

Marfa pulls back, threading her fingers through Anya’s hair. “Tell me.” She rests her chin on Anya’s breast, thumbing over the scattering of white scars on her collarbone. “How does a ghost get so many gunshot wounds?”

Anya’s mask of indifference slips for a moment, playing with Marfa’s hand. “Just my line of work.” She pauses, and Mafra waits. “Something I shouldn’t have survived.”

“But you did.”

“Why do you think they call me a ghost?” She finally looks at Marfa. “You don’t want to hear my tragic backstory, _moy sladkiy_.”

Marfa pushes herself up, kissing her again. “I want to hear all of them.”

Anya smiles, sliding her hands down to Marfa’s navel. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

* * *

“Well, this is awkward.”

Dmitry lowers his gun, gaping. “Anya?”

Behind him, Marfa chuckles. “Awkward’s one word for it.”

Anya’s grin is dazzling. “Sorry to barge in on you, _mes amours_ ,” she says airly, tying her hair back. “Afraid I’m not here for you, though.”

It’s then Dmitry realises she’s dressed for - well, work. Blue dress with a high split, sleek black case in her hand he knows contains the tools of her trade.

“Anya,” Marfa starts slowly. “Please tell me you’re not here to -”

Anya _pffts_. “Nope, not this time. Some -” she waves a hand. “Petty theft.”

“Oh, is that all?” Dmitry shakes his head in disbelief.

Anya rolls her eyes. “What are you two doing in Paris, anyway? Is there a summit?”

“International diplomacy,” Marfa deadpans. “Just - don’t do whatever it is you’re doing where we can see, okay?”

Dmitry makes an exasperated motion while Anya winks and blows a kiss before slipping back into the hall. “”Don’t do it where we can see”?” He hisses.

“At least she’s not killing anyone for a change!” Marfa insists. “Would you like to be responsible for arresting our…” she trails off, clearing her throat.

Dmitry bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t really have a word for it, either.

It.

The formless thing without a name.

The thing the three of them have been doing for over a year that they’re still not examining too closely because looking at it directly would be like staring at the sun; bad for your eyes. Or else, sanity.

Instead of being blinded by the giant ball of flame in the sky, they’re questioning themselves. Specifically how they ever got roped into such a situation that feels like a held breath, teetering on the edge of disaster, held together by a generous amount of delusion and recklessness.

But when he thinks about Anya gasping into his mouth and pulling his hair so hard black spots dance in front of his vision, Marfa digging half-crescent marks into his shoulders and guiding his face between her legs. Thinks of every rare quiet moment they get, Marfa sat on the counter while Dmitry stirs over the oven and critiques his methods but still steals bites, holding Anya’s hips steady while she kneels on the countertop to rummage for bowls and plates, insisting she’s perfectly capable of keeping balance but never ever pushing them away.

Dmitry thinks of them, and wants to believe it’s worth it.

* * *

A hit is like a high for Anya - she could be bouncing off the walls for hours, and there’s not much that can bring her down.

Marfa’s friend has a pretty face and brown eyes flecked with green that darken as he watches her hike up the skirt of her dress and wriggle out of her underwear, leaning against the hotel room desk.

Dmitry isn’t as pretty as Marfa, probably doesn’t know how to handle her as well as Marfa does, but Anya wants him anyway.

She pulls him in by his belt-loops, his hands landing cautiously on her thighs. “Anya,” he warns, strained.

Anya clicks her tongue behind her teeth, adrenaline making her skin itch. “Don’t be such a prude, Dmitry.”

“You’re a - we shouldn’t -“

“What, you’ve never fucked someone on a mission?” She challenges, sliding her hands into his trousers.

“Mission’s over.” Dmitry makes a strangled noise, hard in her hand. “We just killed a guy, Anya.”

“Sanctioned by your government,” she reminds him - again. “ _You_ hired _me_.”

He ignores her. “Murder is what does it for you?” They’re sharing a breath now, and his fingers are moving between her legs as if on instinct.

Anya rolls her eyes, shoves his trousers and pants down in one go. “Don’t be stupid.” Dmitry’s hands are fixed on her hips now, waiting. Anya widens her legs to guide him inside her, biting back a moan. “Getting away with it does it for me.”

Dmitry kisses her, teeth sunk into her lip, all reservations gone. Anya winds her legs around his waist and stops thinking.

* * *

Marfa is used to being woken up at all hours of the night, called into work on diplomatic emergencies or endless meetings running on awful coffee and a pulsing headache.

Except she’s nowhere near Saint Petersburg tonight, she’s in Washington, in Dmitry’s apartment, and the incessant banging on his door is _not_ what she wanted during her days off.

“Expecting someone?” Marfa groans, letting Dmitry roll her off him. She squints at his clock. “At three in the morning?”

“I’ll get rid of ‘em.” He tiredly pats her hip, pushes himself off the bed.

She’s drifting back to sleep, face mushed into his pillow, when Dmitry starts shouting.

Marfa’s out of bed and down the hallway before she fully registers what she’s doing, scolding herself for not thinking to bring her gun.

Dmitry is kicking the front door shut, his arms occupied. Marfa stops dead, seeing the head full of strawberry-blonde hair streaked with blood.

Her whole body goes cold, rooted to the spot. “Is that - is she -“

“ _Marf_.” Dmitry’s voice has taken on the tone he uses in the field, snapping her out of blind panic. “Get the first-aid kit.”

They do a hasty full-body check once Anya’s laid on the kitchen counter; her face is bruised badly, split lip and black eye, but nothing’s broken, and most of the blood soaked into her clothes doesn’t seem to be hers.

They have a strict plausible deniability rule when it comes to Anya, usually finding out who her latest target is on the news the next day. But Marfa is listening to Anya’s shallow breathing and pained noises now, and she wants to kill whoever did this with her bare hands - it makes her dizzy, the ferocity of it.

She glances at Dmitry, hard anger on his face and tremor in his hand as he’s stitching Anya up, and Marfa knows he’s feeling it, too.

Neither of them sleep a wink once Anya is settled on the sofa, her head in Marfa’s lap and Dmitry sat on the floor with his back against the armrest.

“Don’t you have to be in Moscow tomorrow?” He asks softly at some point, changing Anya’s bandages.

Marfa brushes Anya’s bruised cheek, takes a shuddering breath. “I’m not going anywhere.” She figures she has enough vacation days stored up as leverage. And if not, she’s staying anyway.

She must doze off lightly for a while, because she’s woken up by Anya trying to sit up and hissing in pain.

“No, no, no, don’t get up.” Marfa grabs her shoulders and eases her back down. “You took some bad hits, think you’ve fractured some ribs.”

Anya’s breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut. “What happened?”

“Was hoping you could tell us that.” Dmitry’s kneeling beside them, wiping a tear from the edge of Anya’s eye. “Who did this to you?”

Anya scoffs, then winces. “Some dumbass who wouldn’t stay down. He’s dead.” She says it with such conviction that Marfa shares a look with Dmitry.

“Did anyone see you come up here?” Dmitry asks.

“Mitya,” Marfa chastises.

“No,” Anya injects before the two of them can start arguing. “Avoided cameras, didn’t look at ones I couldn’t, didn’t leave a blood trail.” She swallows. “I’m sorry.” Her voice breaks, tears filing her eyes.

“You’re safe, is what matters,” Marfa assures, stoking her hair. “You made it here.”

“Just lay low here for a while, okay?” Dmitry kisses Anya’s knuckles. “We’ll take care of you.”

Marfa’s known him most of her life, and yet Dmitry still manages to knock the breath out of her.

Anya nods, still looking uncertain. “Just -“ her hand curls in Dmitry’s shirt and tugs him forward. He gets the message, kissing her carefully, trying to avoid the cut on her lip. She pulls Marfa down to her next, sighing into her mouth - it seems to calm her down.

Dmitry helps Anya shower while Marfa gets rid of the bloody clothes and any other damning evidence against them. It’s frightening how nonchalant she feels about it, cleaning up after Anya. She suspects this might become a regular thing.

Anya sleeps most of the day, curled between Dmitry and Marfa in bed wearing one of his shirts. She twitches in her sleep whenever one of them brushes against her skin, which is worrying in itself; of all three of them Anya is the one who likes to touch and be touched. 

“I’ve got three sisters, did you know that?” She murmurs into Marfa’s neck at dusk having woken in a panic.

Marfa spares a glance at Dmitry, who’s frowning. “No.”

There’s an awful lot about Anya she doesn’t know.

“And a brother,” Anya continues, yawning. “None of them speak to me, anyway.” She goes quiet for so long Marfa thinks she’s fallen back asleep until she shifts her head. “Maria called yesterday, to tell me Tanya had a baby girl. Didn’t even know she was pregnant, and now I’ve got another niece they’ll never let me see.”

Marfa inhales sharply, unsure how to respond to such information that won’t make Anya shut her out.

“That’s why you were distracted,” Dmitry says softly, hand running down Anya’s spine.

“I did the job,” Anya protests sleepily, pressing closer to Marfa. Her breathing evens out soon after, asleep in the cradle of Marfa and Dmitry’s arms.

Marfa silently tilts her head toward the balcony window. Dmitry’s nods, and they reluctantly detangle themselves from the bed and Anya’s warmth.

“She ever mention family to you?” Dmitry whispers, sliding the glass door shut.

“Sometimes,” Marfa admits. “Talked about her grandmother before, but never any names. I didn’t even know she had siblings.”

“But you’ve heard the rumours.” Dmitry gives her a pointed look. Marfa avoids his gaze, looking out over the Washington skyline. Of course she’s heard the rumours about Anya - it’s more that she doesn’t want to think about them too much.

Anya’s entire reputation is built on being unknowable, selling her very specific skill set to the highest bidders. Her aliases only creep up every few years in government circles whenever a high-profile politician or celebrity suddenly ends up dead, but anyone looking could see a noticeable pattern across the globe going back over seven years.

Being a ghost never stops people from talking, though, and if half the rumours are true, Marfa isn’t sure she’s ready to know who Anya really is.

“What is it?” Dmitry brushes her arm.

Marfa exhales. “Do you remember that politician who was assassinated when we were kids?”

Dmitry’s eyebrows shoot up. “A lot of politicians were assassinated when we were kids, be more specific.”

“The one they shot in a cellar.” Marfa can’t remember the specifics of the case, but that always oddly stuck with her.

Dmitry blinks. “Nicholas Romanov? Yeah, his wife died, too.”

“But the children survived, didn’t they?” Marfa leans her elbows on the balcony, Dmitry warm beside her. She can see him filing through the details in his head.

“Settled in France, I heard. Four girls and a boy, pretty private, still managing their grandmother’s estate.” He must finally catch on to Marfa’s train of thought, because his head suddenly snaps up to look at her. “Oh, Jesus. Don’t say it.”

“You’re thinking it, too.” She glances back at Anya for good measure.

“Well, I don’t _want_ to.” He follows Marfa’s gaze, cautiously watching the woman who’s something indescribable to both of them sleep in the middle of Dmitry’s bed. “It’s complicated enough that she’s an _assassin_ , being a Romanov doesn’t need to make the list.”

Hearing it out loud punches the air out of Marfa’s lungs. She grips the rail tightly, head swimming.

The screen door sliding open makes them both jump.

“Are you talking about me?” Anya accuses, sleepy eyes squinted and arms crossed. The worst of the swelling has gone down, bruises an ugly blue and purple against her pale skin.

“We’re always talking about you.” Marfa is quick off the draw, flashing her best smile. “You’re incredibly interesting.”

Anya pulls a face. “Flatterer.” Arms outstretched, she pads towards Dmitry. He’s waiting for her, arms curled around her waist. She kisses him slowly, extracts herself from him to pull Marfa close and kiss her with the same purpose.

Marfa slides her hands up Anya’s shirt, squeezing her hips, tongue languid in her mouth.

Anya nips her lip. “Come back to bed,” she murmurs.

As if they could deny her anything.

Marfa lets herself be led back into the bedroom, Dmitry beside her. It’s all hands, tugging off shirts to replace with their mouths, all soft and sharp moans.

She holds onto them like she’ll die if she doesn’t.

* * *

Anya is unbrazen in what and who she wants, how she wants to be touched, who touches her. Marfa is constantly astonished when she loops her arms around Dmitry and buries her face between his shoulder blades, whenever she leans against Marfa like a second skin, kisses her as easily as breathing.

Marfa doesn’t know how to ask for affection from them, but it turns out she doesn’t need to. Dmitry seems to know without prompting when she wants to be touched, knows when not to risk getting his hand broken. Anya will touch her either way, but recognises the dark look in Marfa’s eyes when it’s one of the bad days, slowly withdrawing her hands.

Sometimes it’s exactly what she needs. Sometimes it’s too much.

* * *

“Sudayev!”

Dmitry startles to attention, hastily shoving his phone away and temporarily halting his heated debate with Marfa over which Star Wars movie they should watch tonight. She’s finally had her transfer to the Russian Embassy in Washington approved and wants to celebrate stretched across Dmitry’s sofa binging epic space operas.

Though really, he’s banking on getting thirty minutes in before Anya inevitably gets impatient and pushes herself on top of one of them.

His handler approaches him, smiling, walking with a woman Dmitry has never met before.

“Sir?” Dmitry stands up.

“Sudayev, I’d like you to meet Eva Branwell,” Crawford introduces them. “Branwell, Dmitry Sudayev, one of our best.”

Dmitry obediatenly shakes Branwell’s hand. “You a new transfer?”

She laughs. “Oh, no, I’m heading the Ghost taskforce, Crawford’s giving the grand tour before I head back to Virginia.”

Dmitry’s blood runs cold. “Ghost taskforce?” He asks, hoping his voice doesn’t waver.

“Trust me, I didn’t choose the name.” Branwell tilts her head. “The investigation into Ambassador Vaganov’s death. I’m sure that made some noise in your country, Sudayev.”

Dmitry knows an implication when he hears one, and even Crawford winces. “This is my country, ma’am,” he says levelly. “And no, I haven’t heard much about it.”

The most he knows about Ambassador Gleb Vaganov is that he beat Anya so badly she had to recover in his apartment for a week, but he’s not about to tell Branwell that.

“You’re hunting down the Ghost,” is what he does say.

“Bringing them in,” Branwell corrects. “Whoever _they_ are. But with the US and Russia coordinating the investigation, I don’t see them being free much longer.”

Dmitry prays his expression remains neutral, the scratches down his back from the very person she’s talking about suddenly flaring up.

His fingers twitch to make for his phone, to tell Marfa to tell Anya to get the hell out of wherever she is and _hide_ , as if there’s anything just the two of them can do to protect her.

Instead he nods and smiles tightly at Branwell, bids her and Crawford farewell, grips the edge of his desk so hard it almost breaks the skin.

* * *

“What are you thinking about?”

Marfa joins her at the window, tying her braid up. Anya pulls her knees up to let her sit.

“Home,” she says truthfully.

Marfa’s tongue flicks between her lips. “Russia?”

Nodding, Anya looks away. It’s a tidbit of information she rarely tells anyone, has long since trained herself out the harsh accent. But the second time she met Marfa she slipped, called the mark they were after a _tarmazit_ , and Marfa’s whole face had lit up.

“Why did you leave?” Marfa asks, too casually, too carefully.

Anya snaps her eyes back. “Why did you stay?” She disputes.

Marfa arches an eyebrow but says nothing.

Marfa’s friend - Dmitry, his name is Dmitry - hasn’t looked up from the files he’s been pouring over since Anya slipped through the window, but she can tell he’s listening. He’s still so wary around her it almost makes her laugh - as if she doesn’t know what he sounds like when he comes, hasn’t touched herself thinking about his hands pinning her wrists to the wall.

“What about you, Dmitry?” She calls over. “What made you turn tail and run?”

Anya feels Marfa tense beside her and knows she’s touched a sore spot.

Dmitry barely glances up. “There was nothing left for me there.”

Marfa rolls her eyes.

“I don’t believe that,” Anya says.

“Believe what you like.” Dmitry leans back. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Tell us something, for a change.” He cocks his head. “Where were you born?”

Anya already doesn’t like this, but she plays along. “Moscow.”

“Liar,” Marfa chimes in, grinning. Anya sticks her tongue out.

“Fine. Leningrad.”

“Saint Petersburg,” Dmitry corrects her sharply.

“Does it matter?”

“Oh, don’t get him started.” Marfa bumps her knee against Anya’s. “We used to call him the Prince of Petersburg, he loves it so much.”

“Aren’t you from there, too?” Anya frowns.

Marfa shrugs. “Yeah. Just don’t have much personal loyalty to it.”

Anya knows how that feels better than most people.

“And what are you loyal to, exactly?” Anya leans forward deliberately.

Marfa’s eyes flicker to her lips, corner of her mouth twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she murmurs, before Anya slips her tongue into her mouth.

Tugging her forward, Anya undoes Marfa’s braid, running her fingers through dark curls and brushing her thumb across her cheekbones. Marfa gives as good as it gets, loops her fingers around Anya’s wrist and shifts up on her knees, giving her height advantage over Anya.

She’s contemplating tugging Marfa’s blouse open when Dmitry clears his throat. “Would you like me to leave?” He sighs, exasperated as if he’s seen this a thousand times.

Anya pulls back. “You can join in, if you like.” She laughs when he flushes scarlet. “God, you’re a prude.”

“So you’ve said.” Still, he gets up to stand beside them, absently runs his own fingers through Marfa’s now loose hair. “How did you two -“ He gestures between them. “Get involved, anyhow?”

Marfa grabs his hand in her own. “If you’re expecting an epic romance story of how I was sent to kill her but didn’t have the heart, don’t get your hopes up.” She smiles slyly. “Same way you did.”

Of all things he’s heard about her, that seems to surprise Dmitry the most.

He frowns at Anya. “Exactly how many people in Intelligence are you in regular contact with?”

Anya shrugs, thumb rubbing over Marfa’s wrist. “Off the record, none.”

And she’s got too much leverage against all of them should they suddenly decide to run their mouths on her.

There’s something in Dmitry’s eyes that looks like concern. “That can’t be safe for you,” he says, too softly.

Anya raises her chin. “I’ve made it this far.”

She doesn’t want their pity, or concern. They shouldn’t be looking at her like that at all, knowing what she’s done.

“Can you stay much longer?” Marfa’s asking, raising her hand to link her fingers through Anya’s.

She shouldn’t stay. There’s a client she’s due to meet later - some scorned lover with far too much money who thinks they know the meaning of revenge. But Dmitry’s looking at her like that, and Marfa’s palm fits perfectly against hers, and Anya wavers.

She studies Marfa’s face, soft and open in the afternoon light. Too precious to be held by her.

Anya has hurt more people than she’s held. She’s learned not to dwell on it.

“If you want me to,” she says quietly.

Dmitry sighs out a _yes_ , and Marfa nods. That’s all she needs.

Anya kisses her. Marfa kisses back. And Dmitry kisses them both.

* * *

Eight months after Marfa moves to Washington, it takes one message from Dmitry to make it all shatter.

_They know._

Anya comes running in at the sound of a plate shattering. One look at Marfa’s face and her expression shutters, detached.

“I should go,” she says flatly, and Marfa _hates_ how she can do that so easily.

“I’m coming with you,” she’s blurting out before she even registers her mouth has opened. Anya stares at her, baffled. It occurs to Marfa, suddenly, that Anya isn’t too familiar with this sort of loyalty. “We’re coming with you.” She corrects, repeats.

“Marf.” Anya swallows. “You can’t - you don’t have to -”

“Yes, we do,” Marfa tells her, harsh, boding no argument, refusing to have this conversation when they need to get moving. “Pack what you can and I’ll meet you in the car.”

Tears in her eyes, Anya nods.

Marfa knows how this works, knows what’ll happen if Anya’s caught, if she and Dmitry are caught. Dmitry tells her someone tipped the taskforce off with a sketch and rough location in Washington, probably a client. No names, no connection to them.

And yet it’s too much. Enough for them to get Anya out the country immediately.

Dmitry only ever asked Marfa once, pillow talk, if she’d ever leave it all behind.

She’d laughed it off until realising he was being serious, guilt stinging her throat seeing his face fall.

“Mitya,” she’d murmured, kissing him. “That’s not the life I want.”

Perhaps she spoke too soon.

“You’re both insane,” Anya says for the thousandth time somewhere near Boston while Marfa is booking flights to Europe. “I can take care just fine on my own.”

“We _know_.” Dmitry pulls her towards him, cupping her face. “But you don’t have to.”

“So please stop trying to convince us to leave, because we’re not.” Marfa only glances up to see Anya’s jaw snap shut, kissing Dmitry’s palm.

* * *

“What are you - are those _swans_?”

“I’m stressed!” Dmitry hisses, flattening his napkin back down. Marfa rolls her eyes despairingly.

Anya doesn’t say a word, her own napkin torn to shreds in her lap. Dmitry slides his fingers through hers, squeezes her hand until he feels her shoulders slump.

Her sharp intake of breath alerts both him and Marfa, following her gaze down the small street. A young man comes into view, dark auburn hair and unsure blue eyes reflected bright in the Milan sun.

His mouth falls open seeing the three of them.

There’s a strangled cry and Anya is on her feet, stumbling against the table.

“ _Alexei!_ ”

Dmitry watches them barrel into one another with such force he thinks they’re going to topple over, lump painful in his throat. Marfa looks away when Anya starts crying into her brother's shoulder. Dmitry does the same.

This is not their joy to share.

Marfa wipes her eyes quickly. Unshed tears in his own, Dmitry offers his hand to pull her up.

They barely make it two paces when Anya calls to them.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?!” She stands before them, hands on her hips and blue eyes flared, defiant as the day he met her. Alexei’s stands aside from them, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Dmitry’s mouth is dry. “I - we thought -”

“You can go home, Anya.” Marfa says what he can’t, her voice breaking. “You’re safe now.”

Dmitry’s chest hurts. He loves her. Loves them both.

Anya stares at them as if they’re speaking in tongues, bewildered. “My God, you’re both idiots.”

“What?” He’s not sure who says it, him or Marfa.

Anya just shakes her head, taking both their hands. “You’re staying. You’re both staying.” Tears fill her eyes and Dmitry aches to wipe them away.

“Anya -” he whispers.

“I love you,” she stops him, insists. For a moment she looks as surprised as Dmitry feels at her own outburst. “I love you both, and you’re staying. Just for a while, please. I know you both have more than enough vacation days saved.”

Marfa’s shaking beside him. “We’re staying,” she sobs, laughing. “God, I love you. We’re staying.” The words are barely out of her mouth before she’s kissing Anya, laughing and crying.

They both turn to him, expectant, and all Dmitry can think over the pounding of his heart is he loves them, he loves them, he loves them.

He kisses them both, because he wants to and he can. “We’re staying,” he promises.

If there’s one thing they can all be certain of, it’s that.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos appreciated as always!


End file.
